


The Hell Song

by FergardStratoavis



Category: Hellsing, The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Author Also Did Not Do Proper Research On Hellsing, Author Is Not From Chicago, Crossover, Fuck 'em Nazis, Gen, POV First Person, Post-Turn Coat, Pre-Changes, Set In The Thirty Year Interim During Alucard's Disappearance, Star Wars References, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21875104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FergardStratoavis/pseuds/FergardStratoavis
Summary: As a rule of thumb, Harry Dresden and vampires don't get along well - so it's only natural that this particularly strange job will have him work alongside a Blampire who has no idea about the supernatural world - and her mistress(?) who doesn't let that stop her. But just what could The Hellsing Organization want with Chicago? Set post-Turn Coat and pre-Changes.
Comments: 19
Kudos: 58





	1. Friendly Neighborhood Blampire

As a rule of thumb, my relations with vampires tend to be a little rocky.

Well, perhaps that’s a bit of an understatement. The “I burned down a brothel owned by a Red Court vampire” kind of understatement, or “I got disfigured by a Black Court vampire” kind of understatement, or “I have a troublesome half-brother White Court vampire” kind of understatement (oh, and the Byzantine politics and life-leeching succubi on the side).

Point is, I don’t really like vampires (except for the aforementioned half-brother). I _especially_ don’t like vampires in my close vicinity, let alone in broad daylight. Sure, we were at Mac’s, the local neutral ground for all supernatural critters, and the vampire would have to be mad to try something here. That would, of course, be cold comfort to your friendly neighborhood wizard if he ended up with his throat ripped out and used as the last snack to his last _ale_.

Imagine my surprise when a flippin’ vampire of the Black Court turned out to be as cute as a button.

She was a small thing, maybe a few inches taller than Murphy – and the longer I looked at her, the more she resembled her. Blonde hair, eyes the color of deep azure, two tiny twintails, though obviously much younger in look, at least. Not even twenty. Despite the bounce in her step – a very interesting bounce, the neanderthal part of my brain noticed – and a big friendly smile, she maintained a professional posture and kept her hands constantly in my sight.

So, in summary, she didn’t look like a Blampire in the slightest, and the pink hoodie with Count von Count’s merry face on it didn’t help that impression in the slightest. “Much thanks for meeting you, guvna.” And she spoke Cockney thicker than the London fog. Of course. “I, uh… first of all, thanks for hearing me out.”

“Well, you’re the first Blampire I’ve met that even entertained the thought of meeting on neutral ground.” I replied with a nonchalant shrug. I haven’t met that many of them, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Blampi… oh, huh. Never thought of that name.” She admitted sheepishly. Well, thank goodness at least one person out there wasn’t confused by it. “Wouldn’t Blackpire work better though?”

...she was asking some incredibly insightful questions. “Nevermind that. I hope you understand that I’m slow to trust you, but we’re on a good path to some kind of understanding.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.” Gee, I wonder why.

“So… Miss Victoria, was it? What can one Harry Dresden, slightly used, do for you?”

\----

There’s one consequence of putting your name in the phone book under “Wizards” that there’s not much that can be done about: prank calls.

Far too many people have phoned only to make fun of me. It’s something that you learn to tune out as you progress in any craft – apparently even 911 got these kind of “there’s a corpse of King George in here” calls. As my profession doesn’t exactly fit in the All-American standard of normalcy, I receive more such calls than your average fast response unit. That’s just the way it is: people who aren’t aware of the supernatural around them are perfectly fine to ignore it – and will go to the longest, stupidest lengths to justify everything that cannot be justified.

The few that know can either harden and adapt or they break. Fortunately, the few friends that I had belonged in the hardened camp.

I picked up the phone. “Dresden.”

“Ah, is this Harry Dresden the Wizard?” The voice on the other side – youthful, British but not quite Chandler-British, a woman about twenty if I were to guess – asked.

“That’s what it says in the phone book.”

“Alright, good, uh… my name is Seras Victoria. I’m calling on behalf of Sir Integra Hellsing.” Hm. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t put my name to it. I mean, the guy (lady?) was called _Hellsing_. If this wasn’t a prank call, my incredible deductive skills suggested this had something to do with vampires – and not necessarily Red or White Courts.

“...I’ve been told to inform you of my, um, allegiance right away, so we can maintain as much trust as possible.” Seras sounded almost sheepish. Before I could ask her to elaborate, she said five words that nearly dropped me off my chair. “I’m a Black Court vampire.”

Go my incredible deductive skills. Still, the possibility of it being a prank call had suddenly dropped. To know about vampires enough to differentiate between their Courts indicated a moderate knowledge of the situation – and Black Court, or Blampires, as I came to call them a few years back, was the most dangerous of the three. Reds were parasites and predators, without morals or honors, and currently embroiled in the war with the White Council. I might have had a hand in sparking that conflict. Whites were basically succubi and incubi, feeding on emotions and life energy of others.

Blacks… were the “classic” vampires.

I’ve only met one Blampire in my life, and it’s her to whom I owe the fact that my arm resembles a melted wax arm of a nonexistent Harry Dresden wax figure. She was ancient, utterly ruthless, with no good bone in her body. She could make Blampire fledglings out of dead bodies and dozens of mentally ravaged servants, the so-called Renfields. Let me put it this way: Stoker’s _Dracula_ was written on the request of the White Court to thin the numbers of the Blampires. It worked, but here’s the thing.

The few of them that remained were some of the most craven and merciless sons of bitches that could possibly walk on this sorry Earth. And now one of them just called me on the phone, and asked for help. If there was ever a textbook definition of a trap, this would be it.

Almost as if sensing my rapidly growing want to slam the phone down, she went on to explain. “I, uh, I’ve heard you don’t have the best relations with vampires, so… um… neutral ground sound good?”

“You tell me, Lucy Westenra.”

“I know it sounds like I’m planning something nasty, but… uh, I’m not?” I didn’t reply immediately, opting to close my eyes, rub the bridge of my nose, and mentally count to ten. “Mr. Dresden?”

“McAnally’s in an hour.”

“Oh! Uh, yeah, sure. That’s where that awesome _ale_ is, right?” Guess she did her homework on Chicago’s landmarks, at least. “...thank you for hearing me out.”

“I wouldn’t thank me yet.”

\----

Hm. I guess it should have been obvious that she was putting on the exaggerated accent for the effect.

Well, no matter. “Sir Integra would like to meet you in person to explain the situation at length.” Seras said, looking unusually sheepish – likely having realized that a vampire asking a non-vampire to step out of the neutral zone might have been just a little suspicious. “Well, in case you prove ornery—“

“That’s not the word I would use.” Honestly, having a fledgling Blampire for your personal errand girl was concerning enough for me. Just what kind of unimaginably ancient vampire Sir Hellsing was? Seras sighed and, very slowly, reached into the pocket of her hoodie. “And these are the imminent means of coercion?”

“We call those Nokias.” She rolled her eyes in annoyance and presented a little cellphone. I had little experience with technology, but I was pretty sure this was an equivalent of cellphone Middle Ages I had before my eyes – which was moot anyway, because a wizard’s presence has this quirky side effect of making gadgets and doodads invariably fail due to malfunction. Can be helpful now and then – and I even made a little neat tech curse out of it – but I failed to see how putting this cute little thing on the table would help any.

Until I realized it wasn’t turning into a pile of molten slag or an IED. “Oh.” Seras snorted in amusement and tapped the buttons, making the screen flash to life with sickly green. “That doesn’t normally happen.”

“Yeah, it’s been made wizardproof.” Wizardproof? That’s… I… Seeing my confusion, she decided to elaborate. “I don’t really get magic much, believe it or not, but Sir Integra gave me this ol’ Nokia. Told me it won’t explode or anythin’ in your vicinity, so it’ll be perfect for a talk.”

“ _Wizardproof?_ ” I couldn’t help but feel indignant. Being a wizard was a life of sacrifice that involved, among other things, not having a whole lot of mundane quality of life improvements. Hell’s bells, I lit my apartment with freakin’ candles, and all of a sudden this Cockney Draculina shows up with a phone that works as intended while being just across the table. “How do you even—“

“I don’t really ask questions.” She shrugged indifferently, tone suggesting she wasn’t particularly invested in the matter… which reminded me: how can you _not get magic_ when you’re a Blampire? Not being able to use it, sure – though that too seemed spotty – but not “getting” it was just another bag of marbles. They were looking to hire a wizard! How do you even—

“Anyway, Sir Integra’s on the line.” Seras just handed me the phone with utmost casualness. Well, sure thing. They say you had to try everything at least once in your life, though I imagine they might have had something more exciting in mind than a simple phone call. (Cellphone call? Hell’s bells, this was going to get confusing)

Two beeps later… “Mr. Dresden, I presume?” A regal voice of a woman, give or take, in her forties, felt strange through the phone filter. But hey, this was a first for me either way, and so for once I had no proper quip for the situation, just making an affirmative grunt. “I’ll keep this brief: I’m staying at The Peninsula. I trust you know where that is. If you have any misgivings about Seras, have her swear on whatever it is that wizards swear.” And just like that, the call ended and I was left with more questions than answers.

Also, for some reason, I expected her to pull a Leia on me. Getting an Iron Lady from the Greatest Isle that wouldn’t take “no” for an answer… yeah, I was somewhere between “irrationally irritated” and “amazingly awed”.

...”swear on whatever it is that wizard swear”? Stars and stones, this was only beginning to get interesting…

\----

We must have looked like a pair of jokers, just rolling up to one of Chicago’s high-class hotels in an old Beetle that looked one turn away from falling apart.

Well, that really wasn’t fair to the Blue Beetle. It’s not really blue these days anymore – a consequence of being a wizard’s car and therefore suffering more wear and tear than cars should – but it’s been my faithful companion for almost a decade. And, since it was so old, it didn’t choke up with me around unlike other, more sophisticated modes of locomotion. Thank the Force I never actually had to board a plane.

Seras didn’t seem all that bothered by our, shall we say, vintage approach. Apparently she never got to ride one of these before. Being a Blampire probably made for an effective reason to not bother investing in a car. After we were done parking the Beetle – and explaining to the bewildered hotel boy that no, this wasn’t some kind of social event happening or what not – we moved into The Peninsula’s foyer.

Almost immediately someone shot me a wary look – must have been my roguish charm and not the tattered longcoat I wore. There weren’t many people present, and most of them seemed to belong in the “people of success” category, each of them wearing a suit more expensive than my entire stock in the laboratory. Strange to an outsider, but being a wizard didn’t pay all that well. We walked over to the receptionist’s desk. The girl behind the mahogany was probably my apprentice’s age, plain and pleasant to look at the same way a new lamp in your living room is pleasant to look at.

“Rough work, Jill?” Oh. Apparently Seras was already on first name basis with her. Jill the Receptionist nodded miserably before looking at me. “He’s with me.”

“I figured.” Unfortunately, her voice didn’t really mesh with her well, a little too high and squeaky, like nails on the chalkboard. “Your name, sir?”

“Ben Kenobi.” The two women looked at me funny. Sheesh, let me have some fun. While Jill looked understandably annoyed, Seras seemed… analytical.

“I was expecting a _Lord of the Rings_ reference instead.” She finally said, sounding almost disappointed. I couldn’t help but grin approvingly. The usual response to my pop-culture shenanigans among the supernatural world is anger and/or confusion, so this was a welcome change. Amazing that I would ever think that a company of a Blampire might be pleasant, but Seras was getting up there.

“Alright, smartass. What’s his name, Seras?” Jill had far less patience with this old hermit from Naboo.

“Harry Dresden.”

“The weirdo that showed up at Larry Fowler’s?” The vampire shrugged indifferently. This time I couldn’t help but feel annoyance myself. They won’t ever let me live it down, will they? “Well, whatever.” The receptionist wrote me down in the guest book. “Try not to spook anyone, Garbage Gandalf.”

\----

I don’t know what I was expecting when arriving at Room 325, the current lodgings of Sir Integra Hellsing – but it certainly wasn’t a Mexican standoff.

“Mr. Dresden. How is it that you always find yourself in hotspots like these?” John “Gentleman” Marcone greeted me from over his cup of tea, as if he wasn’t just being held at gunpoint by whom I presumed to be Sir Hellsing in the flesh. As always, the Baron of Chicago was flanked by his two bodyguards: One Hendricks (not a Jimmy, sadly), a ginger gorilla disguised as a man and currently returning the favor to Sir Hellsing with his own gun; and one Gard, Marcone’s magic specialist – and a Valkyrie, to boot. She remained still as a statue, cool blue eyes drilling into Sir Hellsing.

My first instinct was to quip back at him, the second – and a much wiser one – was to grab Seras’s shoulder and hold her. It was more of a symbolic gesture, since I didn’t doubt she could bend me into a pretzel if she wanted to, but it did keep her from springing forward like the world’s most dangerous Slinky. Even still she turned as tense as a string – and her glamour fell in an instant to boot as she bared her teeth in an animalistic snarl.

...well, “glamour”. All that really changed was her eye color – to blood red – and hair color – to platinum blonde. Oh, and her left arm turned into a shadowy _thing_ , jagged like a bonesaw and pulsing with malicious intent. I fought off the urge to let her go. The sheer degree of foul energy this sharp shadow radiated made my head spin. And yet, Seras didn’t deform any further – which didn’t exactly make me feel any better.

This mere fledgling held power that made good ol’ Mavra’s feel like party tricks – which rose questions about just who the hell sired her.

“Stay, Seras.” Sir Hellsing’s voice – firm like steel – cut through the tension. And Seras stayed – and even deflated sheepishly, like a scolded child. The air relaxed a little, but the guns were still up. Still, that did give me a moment to regard Sir Hellsing. She could be somewhere around her forties, with her once blonde hair showing signs of graying, yet she remained in a form and poise that would make men way younger blush with envy. She carried a sharp, slightly triangular face, with a dark brown tone of skin – Indian heritage, if I were to guess. One of her blue eyes was missing, hidden by an eyepatch, but it didn’t stop her from donning a pair of round glasses.

It took a special kind of person to take a pair of perfectly round nerd glasses and make them enhance her already overwhelming authority. These kinds of people are rare. Rarer still were people who I didn’t feel like ever mouthing off to – and I mouthed off to Fae rulers, vampires, and Denarians before, among others. In a simple shirt and olive pants, this woman could probably make any overconfident bruiser question themselves with a look alone.

It took an exceptional, entirely mortal, non-magical woman to command utter respect from a Black Court vampire, no matter what kind.

Of course, Marcone and his ilk were no ordinary men, much as I loathed to admit it. “So, shall we sit down and discuss like adults once more? Or can Americans not have a civilized conversation for five minutes without shooting someone?”

“Hey!”

“You’re the last person to be upset about that statement, Mr. Dresden.” Marcone chuckled and casually gestured for Hendricks to lower the gun. Sir Hellsing returned the sentiment, the semi-auto going back in the holster on her belt. The air relaxed again as I slowly let go of Seras’s shoulder. She passed me a look – a grateful one – before she turned up near Sir Hellsing’s seat in blinding speed, ready to play her part of a bodyguard.

In a pink Count von Count hoodie. “Come in, Mr. Dresden.” I awkwardly stepped into the apartment, careful not to bump my head into the ceiling. I could have just walked in, but it would have meant leaving some part of my power behind the threshold. Sure, it couldn’t match the power of someone’s actual staying place – but given the situation it might have been prudent to keep the full battery anyway.

“Now then, as I was saying, Seras or any of the Hellsing personnel is not responsible for your men’s deaths.” Sir Hellsing – who apparently named her group after herself – said. Oh. That’s… that was a news to walk into. I usually received wind of such cases fast enough – either via my contacts with Chicago police or the supernatural informants – so it must have happened only recently. Marcone, as not just the criminal boss of Chicago, but also the sole non-magical mortal to sign Unseelie Accords as a Freeholding Lord, kept peace in the city, for a given value of “peace”. That did make him a target to undermine among more unscrupulous members of the Accords however. “She was fetching Mr. Dresden at the time.”

“While that might be true, I know that Black Court vampires are capable of blinding feats of speed.” Marcone replied, tone even. “Plus, their rarity makes it suspicious that these killings occurred just when someone with such a vampire on a leash appeared in Chicago.”

“Seras follows me as an employee of the Hellsing, not as a bound thrall.” Sir Hellsing’s statement carried absolute authority. Marcone smiled, and I didn’t like that smile.

“Please understand my caution. Track record of Hellsing’s endeavors does carry a large body count of friend and foe alike. I’m sure London has not yet faded from memory.” Seras bristled again, but the only sign of Sir Hellsing’s anger was the ever so slight frown. I, for my part, felt irrationally annoyed at the fact I, for a change, was not in on the loop. “I do not wish to make enemies, Sir Hellsing. All I care for is maintaining order here.”

...I couldn’t help myself. “So did Tarkin when he blew up Alderaan.” Suddenly, every single pair of eyes in the room was on me (since Sir Hellsing did not deign to turn). Marcone sent me only a tired look – Hendricks had enough glare for the two of them. “But his criminal wit is insignificant next to the power of the Force.”

Seras barely hid her laugh by coughing into her fist. “I missed your charming retorts, Harry.”

“I didn’t miss you in the slightest, _John_.”

“Enough.” Sir Hellsing, sadly, was not one for levity, casting both of us a thunderous look. “I think we’re finished here, Mr. Marcone. I hope next time you wish to see me, you’ll have more than empty threats.”

“Of course.” The Gentleman rose from his seat, gesturing slightly at his two goons. “And I hope we won’t have to actually meet again. To trust a word of mouth is no easy task.”

“Your generosity astounds me, American.” Marcone smiled and nodded goodbye before making himself scarce together with his two people. Sir Hellsing took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose in barely hidden frustration. “And I still have another one to deal with...”

“To my credit, I don’t run the Chicago’s underworld.” She passed me another look and I stood at attention despite himself. “Er, so… you wanted to see me.”

“Yes. I’m beginning to think it might have been a mistake, but since you’re already here… have a seat, Mr. Dresden. We have to talk business.”


	2. Her Majesty's Vampire Hunters

The Hellsing Organization – actually Royal Order of the Protestant Knights – _actually_ Her Royal England Legions of Legitimate and Supernatural Night Guard – operated on the fringes of the supernatural world.

It was officially – though not publicly – recognized as Great Britain’s primary anti-supernatural force by the Royal Crown, which – considering the HQ of the White fricking Council was on the same isle – was a ballsy move to make. Most non-magical people didn’t think much of the things that defied logical explanation. Strange sightings were attributed to post-crack hallucinations, unexplained abductions were people OD’ing in some ditch out of sight, bodies that did not match human skeletons were called “deformed by the fire”. I’m still angry about the fact that Butters had to land in a loony bin for three months just because he made an honest diagnosis.

But back to the topic: put short, Hellsing was Great Britain’s counter-terrorist supernatural strike force. They primarily dealt with the various brands of vampires and vampire-esque creatures, but apparently had a hand in removing other, more esoteric traits. Guess what was their primary means of dispatching a threat of choice.

It was siccing a fucking Dracula at it.

“You mean to tell me that you… have Dracula, one of the greatest Black Court vampires to have ever lived… on a speed dial.” I said, my head buzzing with the sheer scope of implications at this piece of knowledge. The fact that White Council hadn’t yet scoured Hellsing from existence implied they either couldn’t or that they _wouldn’t_ , satisfied in having an equivalent of a coked-up German Shepherd do the dirty work for them.

I wasn’t sure which of these options terrified me more. The German Shepherd comparison, amusingly, was ever accurate, because Vlad Tepes’ last great opponent were the Nazis. Nazi vampires, specifically. _Science_ Nazi vampires.

I know this is rich coming from a guy who once revived a T-Rex to charge in the middle of a necromantic ritual – but _science vampires?_ _ **Science Nazi vampires?!**_ “We had. Alucard has been missing for nearly twenty years now.” Sir Hellsing explained, utterly undaunted by my sheer disbelief. “...until last week.” Oh. Oh no. I didn’t like where this was going. “Our allies in America notified us that Millennium remnants – wherever the hell they came from, anyway” Her composure briefly faltered as she rubbed the bridge of her nose in annoyance. “have been spotted in this region of the country. Supposedly, they have acquired a part or multiple parts of Alucard’s body. Even if this confirms that he’s dead and gone for good, even his remains may prove to be too dangerous to be left in irresponsible hands.”

“And that’s where I come in?”

“This is your city, Mr. Dresden, and I’ve heard that you do not share White Council’s sentiment of obstructive stuffiness that would keep you from helping us. The Hellsing is hunters, not investigators, so a gentler touch is required.”

“You must have also heard that I don’t do gentle.” I shook my head with a sigh. Obviously I wouldn’t be leaving this be. Normal Nazis are bad enough, and I’ve had enough supernatural forces running in Chicago already – I didn’t need another one.

“I’m not asking you to handle the matter personally. Seras can do that. All I need is the information that you can gather.”

“Right. I presume you want this done yesterday?” Sir Hellsing’s lips quirked mirthlessly.

“That would be beneficial not just for us, but for the good of the city. Your White Council friends are already asking me very pointed questions, and my patience can only grow so thin.” _Her_ patience, not Merlin’s. These were the words of someone way over their head or someone with absolute confidence. So far Sir Hellsing seemed to skew towards the confident end of the scale. “They’ve already had the gall to visit fresh after London. Where were they during the attack?”

Some years ago, just at the turn of the century, the City of London was… depopulated. In what the media decried not just the most violent and fatal terrorist attack of all time – the bodycount made WTC look like a sandpit dispute – it was called the vilest, the most appalling act of malice to ever have been done. I knew just enough to know that “terrorist attack” was just an excuse for the non-magical world – and yet, the magical world was strangely disinterested in the event.

Over three million people, dead, and no clear culprit was ever found. And now it turned out it was a bunch of self-disposing Nazi “vampires”. Still, that explained White Council’s – or anyone’s, really – indifference to the thing; most happenings there were done with mortal tools, with only a tinge of the supernatural thrown into the mix. And if Dracula himself perished at the site, then all was good, right?

I closed my eyes and mentally counted to five. “Alright. I’m gonna need some cliff notes on what to watch out for.”

“Consider it done. Seras will have them delivered in an hour. Your address, then.” I hesitated for a moment before deciding to wisely throw the caution to the wind. It couldn’t get much worse right now.

\----

My first idea upon returning back home was to consult Bob.

Bob is a spirit of intellect that had forgot more than archwizards had learned all their lives. I figured that, given the strangeness of this investigation’s query – I mean, come on, science Nazi vampires – it would be wise to just ask him straight away if he knew anything on the matter. Back in a day he used to serve a real nasty piece of work by the name of Kemmler, who just so happened to be active around WW2. Most of his knowledge from that time period was forgotten – on my request, to keep Bob away from the darker times he was once mired in – but perhaps simple memories might still have been around.

Bob, much to my worry, whistled in that typically cliched “you dun goofed” way you sometimes heard on TV (so I’ve heard, being the magical savage). “Harry, how do you end up getting in the worst kind of shit every other Tuesday?”

“Must be karma for being named after a book wizard.” Bob rolled his nonexistent eyes, the skull he was into chattering slightly.

“Well, the good news is that most Millennium ‘vampires’” I could feel the quote marks in his voice. “are well-below your punching weight. You’ve fought actual vampires before, sahib. Millenniums are basically ghouls on crack.” Ghouls _were_ tougher to kill than cockroaches, so that was cold comfort at best.

“I can’t help but notice that you said ‘most’.”

“That’s the bad news. Whoever survived must either be their toughest or most cunning bunch. Don’t know any of them by name, since He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named didn’t care much for mundane ways of the Reich.” Bob hummed thoughtfully. “And there’s a chance they could have made more if they have Drac’s sack. Plus, you know, working tech and all the money in the world.”

“Alright. Riddle me this now: how do you make _anything_ “wizardproof” and where can I get some?”

“Don’t look so surprised. Back in a day wizards merely changed the color of candles nearby.” That was true, not that it made me feel any better. “My guess is some kind of faith magic.”

“That’s rich coming from a group employing Dracula.” I stopped that thought, pondering about something. “...hey, Bob. How obvious is “Alucard” as an alias?” Bob merely stared at me for a moment before exploding into raucous laughter. Yeah, that probably settled it.

\----

Seras arrived in exactly an hour.

She stepped out of an incredibly British car painted dark red – you know an incredibly British car when you see it, trust me – having switched her pink hoodie for a plain blue button-up and a pair of cargo pants. Now that she wasn’t wearing a baggy top, the neanderthal part of my brain reawakened with the fury of the heavens. Stars and stones, she made the White Court succubi look like slices of a white bread. Something told me she wasn’t even trying to, whistling Black Sabbath’s _Iron Man_ under her breath as she regarded the building I lived in with the curiosity of a European tourist.

The reason I saw her from the outside was that I’ve just finished walking my evil-detecting dog. Mouse, bless his canine soul, bared teeth in a warning growl, the kind that made earth quake. “Ah, Mr. Dresden-oh my gosh, your dog is adorable!” In a startling difference from what I expected their first meeting to be – most supernatural beings regarded my dog with understandable caution – Seras beelined to Mouse, making the kind of cutesy noises that people do when “talking” to toddlers or puppies.

Mouse’s warning growl gave way to a vaguely amused snort as he let himself be petted. “I always wanted a big dog back when I was a kid.” Seras hummed wistfully, her cheery demeanor faltering for a moment before she straightened up and looked (sharply) up at me. “Anyway, I got you the info you wanted. Can we come inside?”

If someone told me that I would willingly invite a vampire into my apartment, let alone a Blampire, I’d probably just slug them in the face (Thomas notwithstanding). Yet, here we were. Then again – science Nazi vampires (who weren’t vampires). Perhaps my entire understanding of the world was going to be changed beyond belief. I gave Mouse one more questioning look, but his opinion seemed unchanged even as he let himself be petted and talked to like a little puppy in the meantime.

Dollars to donuts, he had a much better chance of telling if a vile supernatural bloodsucker pretending to be nice was actually nice than me.

“After you.” I said, opening the door before her. Judging from the slight, hastily masked look of disappointment, Seras expected my apartment to be some kind of mystical wonderland, a lair of a wizened mage, the kind that didn’t have a half-finished box of pepperoni pizza balanced haphazardly on the chair. Still, she made no comment about it, merely taking in the surroundings. Mouse strolled in second, watching her closely, but not too intently.

Like I said, being a wizard doesn’t pay the bills.

“So, what do you have for me? Oh yeah, tea?” I reflected on that question. “Oh, uh, so—“

“Tea would be great.” Oh. Well, roll with it. If she could drink it, all worked out well. Once I returned with some, there was already a black notebook adorned with Hellsing’s logo as Seras busied herself with giving Mouse the most elaborate tummy rubs. “Anything relevant is in the notebook.” She pointed out, finally leaving my dog to take the tea from me.

“Right. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” One somewhat distressing motto on the front page later (“We are on a mission from God”), it was smooth sailing into the cliff notes; a brief recount of the Battle of London (did the Nazis seriously fly dick-first into the city on top of a giant zeppelin booming out “War” by Edwin Starr?) I was introduced to the profiles of relevant Hellsing members – Sir Hellsing, Seras (I guess if there was one way to gain my trust it was to detail everything about the local Blampire’s abilities), and Alucard himself.

...I had to blink a few times once I got to our dear Count. These powers _did not_ make a lick of sense. Neither did Seras’s, for that matter, but considering that she was sired by Dracula himself… “Something wrong?” She asked me with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m tempted to say “everything”, but that won’t help us any.” Seras rolled her eyes slightly and shuffled closer.

“Hopefully we won’t be going against anything similar to what Master could field. We wouldn’t survive.” Talk about a vote of confidence for a dead-for-twenty-years vampire. “If I’m being honest, I’m not sure who we’ll be going against to begin with. All of Millennium’s remaining members explicitly died in London.”

“Could they have regenerated or something?”

“Nope. Artificial vampires don’t get that kind of stuff, or at least not to my degree.”

“What about reviving them?”

“Most of the officers’s bodies were immolated. Self-destruction chip.” Right. Technology, that mysterious waif from another country.

“I don’t like that “most”, Seras.” The Friendly Neighborhood Blampire shook her head.

“Well, there’s at least… two? At least two that Master ate.” She took the booklet from me and leafed through the pages. “There’s Luke Valentine and Rip van Winkle.”

“Like Washington Irving’s Rip van Winkle?” Seras gave me a look of a Brit annoyed with the notion that us Yankees could have a literature of our own. “I’m just asking to cover bases.”

“Anyway, they shouldn’t be a problem either. During the Battle of London, Master spent all of his souls, including theirs.”

“Yeah, about that...” It was one thing that “Alucard” was basically a walking soul reservoir, adding more and more with each kill and not showing any signs of bloating – but the fact that the Nazis somehow procured a perfect counter to the unkillable Lovecraftian monstrosity, and it was a Hitlerjugend catboy literally named Schrodinger…

I’ve seen some weird stuff in my day. This might have been up there in the top ten.

Further deliberation was interrupted by the phone call. “Right, one sec.” I muttered, shuffling over to take it. “Dresden. Hey, Murph. What is it?” It seemed that Chicago’s Special Investigations department was on the case again, and my humble services were required. Murphy couldn’t tell me much over the phone other than it was a murder, with capital M. “Right. Be there in a bit.” Guess there was no rest for the wicked after all.

“Duty calls?” Seras asked curiously.

“More like bills in desperate need of paying. Anyway, I’ll do some scouting with the info you got me. Will try to get it done in a day or two. Hope Sir Hellsing isn’t in too much a rush.”

“We should be fine. If that gangster doesn’t show his face at the hotel, so should he.” Yeah, I could tell she and Marcone didn’t really hit it off at all. Must have been my incredible deductive skills. “Take care, Mr. Dresden. Take care, furry friend.” Here she bent down to give Mouse a hug.

\----

The first thing at the murder site was a beat cop vomiting into the open sewer grate.

The second one, much more distressing, was a giant swastika sprayed all over the old tenement house standing by its lonesome among other, similarly old and disrepaired buildings. To my knowledge, this was one of the worst parts of Avondale that somehow resisted the gentrification of the area.

“Took your sweet time, Dresden.” Murphy – all five feet nothing of her – greeted me with a sour grumble. “First someone mulches Marcone’s men, now this…”

“So what are we looking at? Nazi wizards?” I asked, gesturing to the giant broken cross.

“Not according to the Organized Crime guy on site.” Murphy shook her head. “And I’d be willing to believe him if there wasn’t a magic circle right at ground zero.”

Well then. Nothing like a Nazi warlock showing up in the middle of a Polish district. At least that could easily be tied to Millennium’s movements in America. Normally these cases would not become so blindingly connected with each other until I could gather much more info on the matter. Not much for subtlety.

And if it _was_ a warlock – a circle at the site of a murder did not one make yet – then it was up to me to show him the business end of my Warden sword.

“Is that the magic man you called for, Murphy?” The magic man scoffed at the silly name, looking over at the plainclothes detective approaching us from inside the building. About six feet tall and change of height, it was a surprise he even made it through the door considering he was built like a linebacker with ogre heritage, a fact not at all obscured by the Columbo-styled trenchcoat on the man. Bald and with a five o’clock shadow all over his face, he seemed to wear it as a personal choice.

As a not-so-proud owner of a stress-induced stubble, I couldn’t help but be annoyed. “Orville Crossbell, Chicago Organized Crime.” He introduced himself. Only now I noticed a still-smoldering cig behind his ear. Guess that was one way of dealing with stress.

“Harry Dresden, wizard.” Crossbell shook his head incredulously.

“So you’re the guy who busted up Larry Fowler’s show, huh?” Oh come on. How many people today were going to bring this up? “Anyway, Murphy thinks there’s some higher power in play.”

“I didn’t say _that_...”

“We have the perp in custody, and he’s enough of a nutcase to let me believe this was all just a freaky ritual killing. Neo-Nazis.” He shrugged as if that explained everything. With the blessing of context, I could only nod-wait.

“...you have the guy who did it?”

“He’s locked up in the basement.” Crossbell nodded. Well, that… was an extraordinarily easy job so far. Of course, things would become a little bit more difficult if I confirmed the guy to be a warlock and therefore someone who I might have needed to take off the police’s hands. Murphy didn’t need any more trouble because of me, so… “He’s been singing war songs the entire time, the fucking nutter.”

“Sounds like a charming fellow. Probably an upstanding member of the community.” Crossbell didn’t appreciate my sarcasm, if the big linebacker hand suddenly gripping my shirt to bring me down to eye level – points for me for being quick enough on the uptake to not get into a Soulgaze with the guy – with a snarl.

“Alright, wise guy. I’ll let you divine just how many dead people are on-site if you still think this is funny.” He let go after a moment, looking almost ashamed of his outburst. “Make sure he doesn’t make off with body parts, Murphy.” Crossbell thus left us to our own devices, going over to see to the beat cop at the sewer grate.

Real charmer with a stinky breath, that Crossbell. “You need to learn how not to put a boot in your mouth sometimes.” Murphy chided me with a weary sigh.

“But then I’ll stop being my good ol’ Harry Dresden self.”

“Right, that’s enough jokes. Crossbell wasn’t kidding – it’s a bloodbath inside.” She said, gesturing for me to follow. A few other cops gave me odd looks, but that long since became an industry standard for yours truly. “Seven people, three generations. The entire family.”

Well. I might have indeed needed to learn how not to put a boot in my mouth.

\----

The murder site looked more like a scene from a Saw movie than anything else.

I’d seen some grisly murder sites before, like people whose hearts exploded out of their chests mid-coitus or those ripped apart by a very angry werewolf. They had one thing in common however: you could usually still identify the victim without the need for dental records.

No such luck here; blood and guts were strewn all over the place. What must have been once an austere living room had been demolished and desecrated twice over. I could have sworn the air itself was a little red. Destroyed furnishings, upturned sofas, the old grandfather clock lying on the side with its arrows bent out of shape…

All of this, of course, paled in comparison to the magic circle and what was inside of it.

Breathing through my mouth to fight off the nauseating smell, and trying not to set something on fire in a bout of growing anger, I saw chunks of bodies, cut into neat geometric shapes and arranged into a swastika. Because of course it would be. They really were committed to the aesthetic. It was hard to tell which chunk belonged to who, so I kept Murphy’s info in mind. Seven people, carved up like a chocolate block and arranged in the kind of art design that would make good ol’ Adolf blush.

And the circle was made of two small intestines put together, to make things more interesting.

“...well that’s a circle, alright.” Murphy offered a dismissive eyeroll in response. The entire art composition felt vile and appalling, almost insultingly obvious in its connection to Dark Arts. And yet…

The basic purpose of a magic circle was protection. It could have been protection from outside harm, like a bunch of Grey Men trying to melt your face off. It could have been protection from an inside threat, like a demon banging uselessly against the immaterial barrier and swearing at you in ancient Sanskrit.

I could see some logic behind safeguarding someone’s remains like that. Magic could have been used to ensure they remain untouched by time – even if that brushed against the Sixth Law just a tiny bit – or that they fulfill some kind of purpose. That did not exactly gel with what we knew about the crime scene and the alleged perp.

This was a hate crime, plain and simple. I had to assume the victims were Polish or Jewish or had that kind of ancestry. The murderer was established to be a fucking nutter, as Crossbell put it. If he had any understanding of magic at all, why would he put the remains of people he butchered in a protective circle? On the other hand, no length of knife I was familiar with could cut people into such mincemeat.

...was it my lucky – and I was using this word with extreme hesitation – day and this really was _just_ a violent killing with no magic involved?

“So who’s the perp?” I asked once I was satisfied with my examination.

“Vincent Quigley, twenty-eight. Nazi Lowriders from a local branch.” Murphy explained. A Nazi biker, huh? This was only getting better and better. “His last record was assault and battery on an elderly Afro-American couple.”

“Real charmer.”

“Crossbell did say it’s strange, since Quigley never actually killed anyone during his tenure in Lowriders.” Murphy sighed. “Let alone in such a graphic manner. Then again, he also pointed out they all snort methamphetamine like it’s going out of style.”

“You think Quigley’s just a convenient fall guy?”

“If he is, I don’t know what the real killer gains from this though. It’d be easier to just leave us wondering what the hell happened.”

“...so… is this a bad time to bring up the fact that we might have Nazi vampires skulking in Chicago?” Murphy gave me a long, long look; the patented “I am so through with your shit, Dresden” look. It softened a little after a moment. “Long story short, I’ve been tasked with finding Dracula’s body parts that may or may not be around here.”

“ _The_ Dracula?”

“Yeah. He’s a… uh, he’s a bit of an outlier from what I’ve been told.” Awkward pause. “...I’ll tell you the whole thing someplace safer. Think we can have a look at the perp?”

\----

Vincent Quigley looked like a Nazi’s Nazi.

The two cops guarding him looked like they’d rather be anywhere else but there, even with the guy chained to an old radiator and in no conceivable ability to do anything to them.

Other than pop their eardrums with bad singing. Fuck, the guy was loud. Murphy’s mouth thinned into a single fine line.

The guy was also covered head to toe in various monochrome tattoos, chiefly the typical nasty stuff; swastikas, SS lightning bolts, Celtic crosses… the NLR’s were, I was told, the abbreviation of his gang’s full name. Then there were some Nordic runes here and there, leading my eyes to the numerous cuts on his arms, then up to his triangular face with beady eyes and a ridiculous handlebar of a mustache.

Upon seeing me, Quigley’s mouth split into an uncomfortably wide grin. If that wasn’t a bad sign, I didn’t know what was. “Harry Dresden…” He intoned like he was about to break into another song dedicated to yours truly.

“It’s Mr. Dresden to you, pal.” I scoffed on instinct, which had the opposite effect to intended; the bastard only grinned wider.

“Oh? Perhaps I should call you Mr. Dresden the Hellsing’s lackey then?”

Well then.

On one hand, I could appreciate things being cut and dry. Like I said earlier, all of these big situations were a number of seemingly unrelated cases running by each other that often took days – and way too many close calls – to figure out. Here? Boom, everything was clear as day.

On the other hand, being called a lackey by some Nazi pissant struck a wrong chord within. “So…” Once I mentally counted to five, I refocused back on a prospective warlock in front of me. He certainly was more informed than I would have liked, but that didn’t rule anything out yet. “Classy work up there.”

“My magnum opus, if I dare say so myself. It’s liberating, finally being able to cross the thin red line and take a life. I’m sure you would agree.”

Deciding that I really didn’t like the direction of this conversation – neither did Murphy, judging by the shift in her posture – I opted to change the topic. “Any particular reason why you saw fit to peddle your art macabre here, with this particular family?” Quigley looked thoughtful for a bit, as if he was waging what kind of bullshit to feed me.

“Not quite… ah, no, actually…” His smile widened again. A little more, and the corners of his lips would be touching the ones in his eyes. “You must have noticed that Avondale has been gentrifying for the last few years. Noble effort to scour the undermen’s plague from this land.”

“Your point being?”

“This building stood stubbornly in resistance of that effort, and now we’ve decided to take matters into our own hands. We just needed to make sure we went about it in the right manner.” Quigley leaned back against the radiator with a look of someone deeply fulfilled. “And now, Mr. Dresden, officers… a song.”

Warlock or no warlock, Crossbell was spot-on: the guy was fucking crazy.

“Avondale is falling down, falling down, falling~down...” Stars and stones, he was butchering that song, even without taking into account the ominous lyrics.

...and that was when Avondale literally fell down on our heads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is a relic I'm digging back out. 
> 
> As it turns out, "write by seat of pants" writing style does not lend itself well to investigative fiction like Dresden Files are. Some other things came up, and as a result I ended up letting this languish for almost a year with no updates. But, here we are: it's a second chapter.
> 
> I cannot in good faith determine when or even if there will be a third one - I have some ideas I want to try out, but we'll see if I'll have enough creative juice for it. Now, as a few commenters on FF.net pointed out, I've been playing a little fast and a little loose with Hellsing canon (is Seras seriously 5'10?), so please just assume that Millennium never actually got to do their thing in the US. There are some other troublesome things that I have misrepresented or miswrote, but hopefully they aren't too much of a problem to sap your enjoyment of reading this story. 
> 
> So... here we are. Hope you like this one. :)


	3. Ground Zero

To my credit, I had the shield raised the moment my Wizard Sense went off.

In _hindsight_ , that still came out a lot later than it should have been. I should have known better by now; these kinds of situations would inevitably invite a trap. The guy knew of my affiliation with the Hellsing and was clearly trying to keep me in place by rambling about nothing. It didn’t matter if he actually was a warlock or even if he was the killer.

Quigley’s sole role here was to distract me while his bosses collapsed an entire damn building on my head.

My shield bracelet wasn’t exactly designed to withstand continuous pressure. It was more of a buckler than a riot shield, perfect for deflecting gunfire, magic blasts, the elements, the works. I couldn’t just hide behind it and call it a day, especially not with Murphy the Muggle nearby and in need of a hand as well.

Thus, an extra push. “ _Defendarius!”_ , I cried out, letting the force of magic flow and envelop us in a dome of blue energy. Pouring the power from the bracelet and the rings on my fingers helped in strengthening the thing against the entire worth of a tenement house falling on our heads. I hadn’t the time to do anything else – the hapless beat cops guarding Quigley and Nazi’s Nazi himself probably had several tons of debris all over them.

...unfortunately, now that the basement became distressingly claustrophobic from the rubble pressing against the erected shield, it was hard to tell if there was a way out. “...so… Nazi vampires?” Murphy asked after a tense moment as we stood there, a hairsbreadth away from being crushed into fine paste. I could appreciate the question: I really needed a distraction from thinking about our impending doom and to focus on some way of getting us out of here.

“Science Nazi vampires.” I corrected, hoping my voice wasn’t too shaky from exertion.

“Excuse you?”

“They’re behind the London incident.” I could feel Murphy’s gaze grow heavier with a glower for a moment before she sighed and shook her head. “And now their remnants are trying to find Dracula’s body parts for ghostapo shenanigans.”

“That pun wasn’t half-clever.”

“I bet you did Nazi that coming.”

“You’re using the fact that I can’t punch you right now to be a smartass. Classic Dresden.” She growled, but this time the atmosphere relaxed a tad. Just a tad, since we were still in a precarious position. “Are they in league with the Red Court?”

“Not that I or Sir Hellsing – my employer – know. They did supposedly flee to South America after WW2.”

“...Hellsing? He’s seriously named “Hellsing”?”

“She, and yeah; I couldn’t believe it myself.” Ah. My forehead was growing wet with sweat. Not good. Think happy thoughts, Harry. “Only really hired me earlier today. She’s got Dracula’s sired Blampire as her right-hand. She looks a lot like you.”

“Okay, _now_ you’re shitting me.”

“She likes my pop-culture shout-outs, Murph. I wouldn’t lie about _that_.” I could tell, I could just tell she was rolling her eyes incredulously. It was, in fact, becoming increasingly harder to move. The blue dome around us was not having a good time either; little by little, tiny cracks began appearing here and there, spreading like rot. “...especially if we’re about to die in a few minutes.”

“That’s uncharacteristically glum of you, Harry.” Her voice tried to be light and comforting, but she must have realized that this was a pickle we’d found ourselves into. I couldn’t risk trying to force push without telling just how much debris was around us, especially not with my magic weakened by the continuous shield upkeep. Wizards weren’t the best at multitasking.

Crossbell and the other cops were nearby when the building collapsed, but they couldn’t possibly uncover us with bare hands and it would be some time before specialized equipment arrived. I preferred not to think about a possibility of a bulldozer or some other heavy duty party car malfunctioning nearby us due to yours truly.

“Guess I did Nazi that coming—“ I did not flinch even when Murphy mock-kicked my shin, her foot stopping way too far from my leg. “Sorry to get you mixed up in this.”

“I was the one who called you here, remember?” She retorted near-immediately. My growing exhaustion was briefly replaced with sheepishness. “Besides, I was mixed up in this the moment you and I fought off a troll together.”

Now that was a distant memory. “...you’re a good friend, Karrin.”

“As are you, Harry.” Guess a man just couldn’t help but be sentimental at death’s door. Huh. Of all the things that could have killed me, I did not expect it to be something so ordinarily mundane. Well, I did expect some thug with a gun would get me, a little bit, but some part of me expected it to be something a touch more sophisticated. Like a warlock’s dark ritual. Or a troll making an accordion out of my spine.

...at least Cassius’s stupid killing curse proved to be a dud – which was both reassuring and really dirty of me to think. That should have tipped me off, just a little bit, that perhaps my time – and Murphy’s, by proxy – wasn’t yet up.

The next thing we knew, eldritch dark energies crept up through the rubble to open a way for us.

\----

**Seras POV**

In this business it paid to be a little bit paranoid.

It especially paid to be a little bit paranoid when expectations placed on your shoulders equaled those of your Master’s – and you couldn’t hope to perform like he did. I was always going to be “Dracula’s spawn”. This used to be fine – obviously a girl from Leeds couldn’t compare to Vlad the Impaler.

The problem was, the world outside the British Isles was much, much larger and more dangerous than I expected.

I realize this is rich coming from a Draculina, but would you believe that I hadn’t a slightest clue that magic – or something similar to it – was much more widespread than you’d think? Not among humans, though they had their fair share of weirdos too. Hell, we _just_ hired a wizard as a PI.

The same wizard who was at the ground zero of the Avondale explosion.

Now, stalking people might not have been nice – but I needed Dresden alive if he were to find anything about Master’s remains and Millennium’s movement in the area. You could call it a womanly intuition, but something told me that the Krauts already knew we were onto them, and that sudden call from a police officer – I know, eavesdropping is not nice either – was bound to get a lot more interesting than it should.

That, or perhaps riding to The Peninsula in an old Beetle with a wizard in tow was a touch too conspicuous.

I dropped off in a nearby alleyway, approaching the site. Fortunately, the building had just collapsed – it looked old and decayed, but they must have used some strong stuff to topple it like that – so it would be some time before authorities arrived to red tape the place from curious passersby. All I needed was to sneak in to the rubble in broad daylight – with my powers at the weakest – extract Dresden and then deposit him outside in a way that wouldn’t implicate him as the culprit behind the explosion.

Easy peasy.

Unfortunately, my tenure as a Draculina didn’t lend itself to developing subtle and gentle powers. It was a lot of slashing, a lot of ripping, a lot of tearing – the works. If the threat couldn’t be contained by our mortal agents, I was sent in, and that was basically it. After London, it didn’t feel like any bump-in-the-nighter could even ruffle my feathers. That proved untrue later on, but it didn’t help me in developing anything resembling stealth.

Fortunately, I knew someone who might have had those skills.

“ _Rise and shine, Mr. Bernadotte.”_ I let my mind wander inwards, to where my familiar-slash-mercenary-slash-loverresided. Some grumbling later, I could see the mental equivalent of Pip rising from his slumber. Mental vision is… strange, and I’ll leave it at that.

“ _How is the most beautiful person in the world doing?”_ He greeted me with only the slightest sleepy slurring.

“ _I dunno, how are you?”_ Brief pause. “ _Help.”_

“ _Whatever needs killing, mon cherie?”_

“ _I actually need to save someone for a change. And no, it doesn’t involve killing something to do that.”_ His shoulders sagged in disappointment.

“ _Sir Hellsing’s magician, I take? What’s the situation?”_ In a less public place and time, Pip would be able to materialize himself and see it for himself. No such luck. I didn’t even dare to think how the sunlight could affect him. I described the rubble and the strict time limit we had before someone spotted me messing with the ruins. The ex-building stood in a fairly open area, but it seemed no one nearby was giving me a second thought. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think of me as a concerned citizen happy to throw my lot and help the people stuck inside, right?

As Pip relayed instructions, mostly concerning the structure of my makeshift rubble-cleaner, I busied myself twofold: the good arm went on to handle the debris in the way, and the not-arm slipped underneath with its shadowy tendrils, searching for pulse and energy signatures both. Dresden probably could hold out inside this pile of rubbish for a time, and he probably used his magic for it.

Sure enough, there was something. I poked at the energy dome, and its waning power. There were two pulses inside, and one more outside the dome, likely buried under the rubble. Little by little, I stretched out a tunnel just big enough for Dresden and his charge, the width of my shadow arm encompassing the entire “ceiling” of this makeshift airtube. All they had to do was to crawl through it.

To their credit, they were pretty fast. First came out a blonde woman, a little shorter than me. No uniform, but she had the badge on and a Sig in her hand, trained on me the moment she could get a clear picture of me.

“ _Those Americans sure are hospitable, aren’t they?”_

“ _Not now, Pip.”_

“You’re the Draculina Harry talked about?” The woman asked sternly. The safety on her gun was off. I offered a non-committal nod in response, continuing to busy myself with the rubble outside. “...right. I don’t suppose you have anything to do with the explosions?”

“I really wouldn’t bother pulling you out if I had.” That seemed to be a satisfactory response for the woman; the gun went into a holster. Shortly after, muttering under his breath, came the wizard himself. I breathed, made sure he was fully out and then let the shadow-arm retract, feeling my shoulders sag in exhaustion as the passage collapsed on itself.

Sorry, third person.

\----

**Harry POV**

Stars and stones, I never expected to be so happy to see a vampire in my life.

Well, it was just a little convenient that she was on the site to rescue me and Murphy so soon after the building collapsed. Whatever that jagged thing of hers did, it took a lot of air out of her. No small wonder; a vampire exerting themselves in broad daylight could be fatal on a lesser specimen. “Murph, Seras. Seras, Murphy.” I mumbled, flopping onto my back to try and get some breathing back.

Crawling through debris with a wizard staff and in a thick duster was not fun in the slightest. “So what happened?” Seras asked.

“Someone killed an entire family to get me to come here.” Clarity of mind didn’t last long for me. It was hard not to think of the damn thing without the brewing anger within. “Fabricated a magic circle to get Murphy here to call me.”

“Did they now?” Seras’s brows furrowed for a moment, and so did her eye turned a shade redder for a spell before she ran a hand over her face. Glad I wasn’t the only one taking an offense to that. “Millennium?”

Before I could elaborate, the debris nearby stirred.

Shit.

The three of us were right on their feet in a flash, although Seras seemed just a little wobbly to be engaging in fighting whatever the hell stirred there. “Oh, thank God you are here!” And now we had Crossbell with us, approaching from around the rubble and blissfully unaware of the coming horror.

The horror turned out to be Quigley, popping from under the rubble mountain like the world’s ugliest Chestburster.

Then I realized that my comparison was disturbingly accurate. This was no Vincent Quigley the Crazy Neo-Nazi, but rather a strange, elongated puppet that decided it had enough wearing him as a costume, but couldn’t quite get rid of all of him. Steel blades jutted out from his palms and the pits of his knees as he ambled to and fro with the same manic grin he left me with before the building collapsed, his body bending in ways that had my own bones screaming in horror.

An upside down-grin, because the damn thing couldn’t resist snapping his head up one eighty degrees. The Quigleymonster skittered towards Crossbell as the most obvious victim. Murphy reacted first, snapping two shots at the thing with her Sig. Both hit the center of mass and threw it off course. Crossbell had enough sense not to question the weird happenings and duck out of the way, brandishing his own gun, as big as the rest of him.

“Hey, Murphy, what the fuck?”

“I’ve got nothing!” She replied urgently, watching The Quigleymonster try and reorient itself before she put another bullet in its head. It lurched, but it did not fall; guess whatever was piloting that bastard was cut from a tougher cloth, after all. “Harry?!”

“I’ve got nothing.”

“Ghouls on crack” my ass. To make matters worse, Seras seemed as stumped as the rest of us. She had her own gun – a snubnosed revolver that made my old Detective Special look like a pinnacle of technology – and took her time carefully aiming it like a rookie civilian caught with their pants down she acted out here.

Guess it was better not to give Crossbell more things to shoot at.

“Anyone else around the building?” Murphy asked, watching the Quigleymonster sway in place, as if it was having second thoughts about attacking people who could actually fight back.

“No, I sent the boys to the hospital. With that fucking thing around, Turner would just puke his guts out.” Crossbell groused. “Alright, magic man! Any idea what kind of drug does that?!”

“National socialism.” I grumbled in response, stepping forward with the staff at the ready. That energized The Quigleymonster as it went still for just a moment, regarding me – and then it lunged forward with a screeching bellow. It was as if someone stuck an iron rod in Quigley’s throat and then had lightning strike it; hell on the ears and really, really pissing your local wizard off.

But it was nowhere near fast enough to be threatening. _“Forzare!”_ I growled, sending the burst of force into the thing and sending it crashing into the rubble. It was nowhere near as tough as the typical supernatural thug sent to do me in either; one of its spindly bladelimbs was bent by the impact. It lunged again, but its stretched-out Quigleysuit was giving out with very sickening squelches.

I’ve had it with these motherfucking Nazis in my motherfucking city. _“Fuego!”_ It burned nicely, complete with the nauseating smell of body fat sizzling and popping. It screamed in pain, the metal parts of it heating it up further to inflict unimaginable agony. It did not stop.

The last part was not included in my cunning plan’s bullet points.

I had only half a mind and enough time to brain the damn thing with my staff. Its neck crunched as it floundered right under my feet, still on fire, and still swinging its blades around. One cut right through my sleeve and nicked my good arm.

While still on fire. With a white-hot metal blade.

Crossbell’s giant gun had its neck snap back again and flounder off me before I could turn into human BBQ cutlets. I stumbled back with a hiss, the explosion of colors flooding my vision in all the worst ways as I tried to put out my duster. It was resistant to the elements, but I might have been just a touch angry while casting the spell, and the flames were proof of that. Another blare from the hand-cannon, something in the Quigleymonster crunched and squelched and the macabre thing dropped down for good.

I think. My entire being was in hard reboot mode right now. I vaguely felt Seras help in putting the fire out while another blare from Crossbell’s penis extender went off.

And then the ground gave out from under my feet.

\----

I woke up back in my apartment with a dog lick to the face.

“Welcome back.” Murphy greeted me from over the chair, looking like she’d been through an all-nighter. Mouse distracted me with another lick and a little whimper. I reached out to pet him, but the movement came off as a bit stiff and stilted, like a doll or a…

...oh hell’s bells. Murphy guessed my train of thought fast enough. “Easy, Harry. I doublechecked with Molly on the phone; you’re not poisoned or anything.” It sure felt like it, given how my entire body felt like someone stuck me in a cast iron. Still, Molly’s knowledge of poisons went as far as I taught her.

Which wasn’t far, admittedly, but it was enough to calm my nerves a tad. I would apologize to her and the rest of the Carpenters for disturbing their vacation in due time. “What happened?” I slurred, struggling to sit up. Bleh. Even my tongue felt like copper.

“Quigley clipped you with one of the blades. You don’t drop from stuff like that so easily, so we assumed it might have been poison. You should have seen Seras.” Murphy shook her head with a mirthless chuckle. “For a vampire, she sure knows how to play a concerned onlooker.”

“Murph… you know she’s on our side, right?” She gave me a long look in response, clearly debating that thought. “Look… I couldn’t believe it myself, but if she wanted to kill me, she would have done so a hundred times over.” Uncomfortable silence persisted between us for a bit. I caught Mouse looking between the two of us in what almost seemed like annoyance before chuffing and shuffling over to try and win Murphy over with fluffiness.

Mister slipped into my field of vision for a moment, too, giving me what might have been a piteous look, before going off to do his own thing. That was still mighty affectionate of him.

“I trust you when you say that.” Murphy stopped distracting herself with fluffing through Mouse’s fur to look back at me. “But I’ve had my fill of vampires doing harm to you, me, and our loved ones.” This time her eyes pointedly wandered to my wax hand. She knew what she was talking about; back in a day she was almost driven insane by an undead ghost-demon working for the Red Court. Her colleague from the police had much less luck.

“...so what’s the good news?” I asked before I could bite my tongue. Much to my surprise, that got Murphy to grin.

“I’m on board, and I don’t even need to risk my job for it.” That normally didn’t happen. Murphy’s involvement in my misadventures – mostly by bailing my sorry wizard ass – was always a risky endeavor. First they stuck her in the SI, which was a Chicago cop’s worst dream and an equivalent of a political assassination. Then they demoted her from Lieutenant to Sergeant. _Then_ this one ginger asshole from IA named Rudolph – an ex-SI to boot, because the man had no concept of dignity at all – went on to become a metaphorical vulture waiting for her to make a wrong move to finally deprive her of her career once and for all.

Seeing my growing disbelief, Murphy elaborated. “Crossbell’s got enough pull in Organized Crime to appoint me the head of this investigation while he and the rest of OC search for the rest of the Lowriders. You’ve become a “paranormal arts consultant” in the meantime.”

“Does that come with a salary? And won’t Rudolph bother you about it?”

“He can try, if he wants Crossbell breathing down his neck.” After having a whiff of Crossbell’s breath myself, I almost felt pity for the IA weasel. “And looking into his fancy house, to boot.”

“Well then. All we need to do now is to not get killed by weird Nazi monsters they send our way.” That got Murphy’s brows to crease.

“Speaking of that… any idea why you passed out after Quigley clipped you?” If it wasn’t poison, it had to be magic, right? I’ve been tossed around by a Naagloshi before, among other things – a nick from a blade like that, even superheated, wouldn’t be enough to put me out of commission. Perhaps this Neo-Millennium we were going up against developed some kind of disrupting magic?

Judging by Seras’s confusion at the site, Quigley must have been a test drive for this development. “Guess that’s a no then.” Murphy shook her head, rising from her seat – accompanied by a disappointed Mouse noise. “Right. You should probably get some rest; you fell pretty hard when you dropped.” Ah. So that was why my head was full of ambient white noise. “At least you don’t have anything broken or sprained this time.”

“No kidding...” I still needed to figure out just what was up with Quigley’s blades, but it was a promising start. Hell, perhaps it would even be smooth sailing (even if finding Dracula’s body parts with no real leads as to where they could have been was a start), and I’d be walking out of this case with a sizable paycheck’s worth of British Pounds and only minor injuries—

\----

A phone call from Father Forthill at 3 AM was anything but a sign of smooth sailing.

Before I got anywhere near the thing, I had the ringing engraved inside of my brain and about three ways to throttle it. I’m sure there was some magic to throttle a phone. Mouse, being the best kind of friend, was happy to help me navigate with my eyes half-closed so that I didn’t suffer an ignoble injury from tripping on a box of pizza.

“Dre” Yawn. “sden.”

“Sorry to rouse you, Mr. Dresden...” I recognized Padre’s voice. Whatever quip I had on the tip of my throat died out once I also recognized an urgency in his voice. Right. With Michael out of town and Sanya out there doing good deeds in other parts of the world, I was probably the next best person to call.

Now that’s a strange thought. “What’s going on, padre?”

“I have been told that you came into contact with the Hellsing Organization.” Well, if I wasn’t awake before, I sure as hell was awake now. At this point the entire city would know all about it. I resisted an urge to grumble. “...I was told to summon you to St. Mary of the Angels.”

“...it’s not an “or else” kind of request, is it?”

“...Harry, you don’t want them to come to your house.” Great, just what I wanted: cryptic warnings in the middle of the night. Still, it seemed that whatever awaited at the holy grounds felt confident to just strut inside like it owned the place – and that alone made my spine crawl. If it was a trap, say, some Red Court joker pretending to be the good Father, they wouldn’t summon me to the sole most debilitating location in my vicinity that was the church.

...of course, maybe the jokers in questions were waiting just outside my doorstep while Forthill was held hostage by their mortal mercenaries. “I’ll be there shortly.” As I hanged up, I weighed my options. A cursory look on Mouse seemed to indicate no one was creeping nearby my apartment. A wizard staff was probably a bit too much of an open carry. Thus, with a blasting rod, a revolver, a slightly used-up shield bracelet and, after a moment of consideration, a faithful temple dog for a bodyguard, I set off.

In a Blue-not-so-blue Beetle.

\----

St. Mary of the Angels is a peculiar church.

It’s huge, it’s pretty, and it’s filled to the brim with ambient holy energy. It’s hard to explain or quantify for a faithless heathen wizard like yours truly, but… imagine sitting before a fireplace in a Christmas sweater you got from your aunt. It’s a number too big, it’s hideously decorated in tacky patterns – and you wouldn’t wear anything else for it. You sit in front of this fireplace, in your sweater, with a mug of hot chocolate in your hands. Someone keeps you company, be they your significant other or a family member or even a faithful animal companion. You feel safe, warm, protected. This kind of fuzziness always accompanied me on visits, invariably and without fail. This was the power of the big man upstairs – to house and shelter even a rotten old sinner like me.

Tonight was different.

The night was really cold, even with the duster on my back and Mouse at my side – and it kept being cold as I entered the praying hall. The lights were off, giving the whole place a chilly blueish sheen. Each step I took resounded way louder than it had any right to be, and even Mouse’s soft pitter-patter could be heard. My dog’s fur was standing up in alarm, but it kept moving forward, towards the altar.

Someone was at the altar; or rather, they were sitting right on top of it, legs lazily hanging down and kicking up at the air and a small Bible in their hand. They wore a priest’s cassock with a doubled collar, just a touch at odds with a lit cig in their mouth and a veritable score of bandages all over their face. They weren’t quite fully wrapped around; the ends floated off against all discernible reason, suspended in the air in what I presumed must have been an attempt at coolness.

The Murderpriest looked up at me with a glare of barely hidden contempt, which didn’t gel with a manic, murderous grin on their face. Must have been my Barney the Dinosaur t-shirt. Mouse bristled, but stayed in place, offering a warning glare of his own. For a moment we remained silent, just staring at each other. No sight of Padre anywhere, and I had a feeling that sudden movements would be understood poorly in this newfound company we had.

“...if this is your new idea of televangelism, then I’m obligated to tell you that me and technology don’t mix.” Words should be fine, right? (He said, as if he hadn’t a whole lecture on not putting a boot in his mouth earlier today)

“...you’re the _magus_ then.” The voice might have once been feminine, but something turned it into a gravelly rasp that barely belonged to a human being, let alone a priest(ess?). As it turned out, the grin was in fact made in Glasgow, splitting way longer than any mouth should.

“Where’s Forthill?” The Murderpriest(ess) scoffed and snapped the Bible shut.

“An _insolent_ magus, to boot. You dare suggest a servant of God would assault another?” Their annoyance was genuine, at least, so it was likely Padre was indeed safe and just had some really unpleasant guests from his line of work. “...you brought a dog too.”

“He’s my service dog. Helps out with wizardly stuff.”

“...fucking Americans…” Ah. So they too were from Europe. Somewhere in Germany, if that accent was anything to go by. “Heed my words, magus. You will cease your investigation of the Nosferatu.” So someone in the Church had vested interest in Dracula’s body parts just like the Hellsing did. Something told me they didn’t want them for an art composition.

“I don’t remember agreeing to any terms.”

“I don’t remember asking your compliance.”

“Is this the part where we take this outside then?”

The next thing I knew, a silver bullet whizzed right past my ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seras POV (that might happen a few more times)? Check. Weird Nazi magitech? Check. A familiar face from Hellsing? Oh boy, check. 
> 
> I want to say that I'm on a roll, but I can't guess how long this good spell will last, especially since there are other urgent things that need to be written down, and they're not the fun fic type sadly. Still, now that I'm committed to it, I'll try fixing a story out of it after all.


End file.
